


Regular What

by pink_ink



Series: Four Eight [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mickey swearing like Mickey does, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Content, Smut, mickey's kinda insecure and ian's kinda jealous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2740721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pink_ink/pseuds/pink_ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a loft party. Mickey is uncomfortable. And brave. But mostly uncomfortable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regular What

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for the warm welcome! This is the third (and final) in the 4x08 series. I have now grouped them together, so if you would like to catch up, follow the arrows at the bottom. 
> 
> PS. Who'da thunk it was Ryan, not Brian? And Gideon is that dissertation guy's legit name. Thanks imdb! ;)
> 
> PPS: I'm palepinkgoat on tumblr

It’s not that he’s scared. It’s just, there’s all these people. Dudes mostly. And when you’ve just been a dark basement fucking your...whateverthefuck, it’s just not where you wanna be. Candles all over the place, people in nice shirts and shit. 

Ian had opened the door and walked in like he’s been there a million times. _Had he been there a million times? He had said ‘the loft of one of my regulars.’ Loft of one of his regular what?_ But now Mickey was following him through the people crowding the entryway. People giving little waves, smiles, looking at him. 

“Woahhohoho, check out that view.” Ian’s voice is somewhere between a laugh and something sharper. 

Mickey’s eyes flit around. People are holding nice glasses and no one is yelling, no one grabbing at food or anything, just still and smiling, sometimes touching each other, just gentle on the arm or whatever.

“What does this joker do,” he spits. 

Ian starts talking about the guy’s job. Mickey’s mind is back in the basement, Ian’s hot hands. That kind of thing makes sense to him, not this. Ian’s hand in his hair, Ian’s hand sliding down his body, down his pants, getting him hard. Kissing him, so soft, so hard, perfectly. He wishes he were back there, in the dark with Ian’s hands on him. Where he belongs, not this...thing.

Mickey’s eyes flit to Ian’s crotch. 

His mind snaps back as he traces Ian’s hand where it really is, around this room. “...I think he took some of these pictures, actually.” 

Mickey can hear something in Ian’s voice. Like seeing the pictures makes him think this guy is The Shit. Good at art and lots of money and shit. He’s never done anything that’s made Ian as proud as he sounds with this guy and his fuckin pictures. 

It starts to click. This is what it’s about. It’s about these guys staring at him, looking at his body and probably blowing him and just thinking he’s going to be one of them someday. Like he doesn’t have south side dirt all over him. Like he’s dressed up and playing a part in some fuckin movie. But these Lincoln Park fucks don’t know shit about him. They don’t care about him at all. They don’t. _Not everybody wants something from me, Mick._ Right. 

This guy does, this guy coming toward them, walking confidently toward Ian, arms already out to hug him. Mickey’s fingers clench the coats tighter under his arm. But he hears Ian’s voice, then. It’s...it’s different. Ian likes this guy, this Ryan guy. He really does. He hugs him, and Mickey is surprised by it, how easy it was for Ian to _do that_ without thinking about it. But he can hear Ian’s voice, Ian’s voice saying his name, a hand sliding gently on his back, “Hey, this is Mickey!” and he sounds...proud. Like he’s looking at that fuckin picture. 

This guy tries to shake his hand, but Mickey can’t quite do it. He’s waving, and he doesn’t know what to do. He can’t _do that_ like Ian can, I guess. He doesn’t know when he’s supposed to do this or that. His eyes flit down, then up. Maybe he just wasn’t ready for anyone else to touch him. Ian could touch him. Not this fuckin guy.

He needs a beer. Now. 

 

There’s this guy named Gideon that keeps trying to talk to him. No matter where Mickey goes, he keeps coming back over to him, smiling and smelling like cologne. Keeps trying to ask him questions about work. He keeps saying, _That’s fascinating!_ He keeps talking about his _dissertation_ and every time he says it Mickey tries to figure out what the fuck that means. He starts to see something in Gideon’s eyes when he talks, almost like he thinks Mickey doesn’t really get what he’s talking about. _I get it, fucker. It’s like a college paper or some shit. Not fuckin stupid._

There’s a pause and Mickey realizes he’s been asked a question. His voice is steady. “What.” The T at the end pointed and sharp. _Get away._ It doesn’t work. 

He’s still standing there, smiling, hand out. “Beer?” Mickey finds himself nodding, lets Gideon take the empty bottle from his hand. 

 

Mickey swallows. He shifts his feet. God, he can’t stay fuckin still. He wishes he didn’t have to just stand out in the open like this. Sitting down means talking to more fucking people. At least this way he can keep moving if he needs to. He lets his eyes scan the room, looking for red. He can’t find him. Can’t see him. His heart pounds. _Why are there so many fucking people at this party? Who knows this many people? It’s getting late. How are they not fuckin tired?_

Oh, because that. There’s a dining room table with people doing coke. Of course. So there’s the good weed on the nice couch and the good coke on the fancy wood table. Because this is a party for rich fuckin people with nice fuckin drugs. He can’t see all the people at the table. There’s a black jacket, head down. _Ian. Goddammit. Enough._

But then there’s a hand on his elbow. He jerks his arm loose. A laugh he knows. God, it’s Ian. Thank Christ. Mickey’s breath is so heavy when he exhales and turns. “Tell me you ain’t been at that table.” 

Ian laughs again. “Not yet. Why? You wanna join?” 

Mickey’s eyes flit to the table. The person in the black jacket is a chick, slicked back blond hair. “Hell no, man. I don’t think you should either. What fuckin time is it?” 

There’s Gideon with the beer. “Hey Ian!” Again with the fuckin hugging. What’s with all the hugging? Who can just _do that?_

Ian puts his hand on Mickey’s back, lets it slide down to his waist. Mickey tries to stay still, not pull away like something in his knees says to do. He softens as Ian pulls him closer, hand spreading to hold his whole hip. “You taking care of this guy, Gideon?” 

Something passes, then. Ian’s still smiling broadly, but Gideon isn’t, really. “Yeah, talking about work, you know. He’s telling me about his wife’s transition from sex trafficking-related violence to a more cooperative system within the sex worker paradigm. It’s fascinating.” 

Ian’s eyes don’t move. He makes a small, dismissive, “Huh. Sounds like it.” 

Mickey’s eyes on the floor, jaw clicking as he shifts it. He manages a small, drawn out, “Yep.”

Ian’s arm drops from Mickey’s side. He takes his other arm and claps it hard around Gideon’s shoulder. “Good! Glad to hear it!” He claps him again. “Keep it up.” 

Mickey’s mouth is open, then closed. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or flip him off. _God, Ian’s eyes are so wide._ “Just wanted to check in.” Mickey gives him a dismissive eyeroll. he’s about to turn away when Ian kisses him quickly on the mouth. On. The. Mouth. So quick that he hardly knows what’s happening until it’s over. What. 

“Well, then.” Gideon says, smiling again, handing Mickey his beer. Mickey’s eyes push around the room, quickly. He drinks most of his beer in one long slug. 

 

He’s been holding their coats this whole fucking time. He suddenly remembers that cigarette. He still has that one left. The one he thought him and Ian were gonna split after fucking or whatever. Time to get some air. He turns to find Ian, tell him he’ll be back. Ian’s hovering by the bar, taking a shot with some guy in a tight shirt, too much stuff in his hair. They cough. Laugh. High five. What the hell, man. He pauses, his hand on the doorknob. He bites his lip. 

Ryan’s there, again. “Mickey! Having a good time?” His voice is bright. He grasps his hands together, smiling.

“Yeah, man, I just…” He starts to put his coat on. “Gotta go have a smoke. Pretty sure he’s still goin’ a while.” He nods over at Ian, but Ryan’s eyes don’t leave his face. 

“You’re welcome to smoke here, Mickey! Not a lot of people smoking cigarettes, but don’t let that deter you. You’re more than welcome.”

Mickey’s eyes calm. He’s not so bad, this guy. Not that fat fuck at the club. Still. _Regular what?_ “Thanks.” He slides the cigarette back in the box. 

“Last one?” Ryan says. Mickey nods. Ryan gives a little gay laugh. “I remember those days. Lucky for _you_ , I keep a few packs on hand for these occasions. Be right back. Stay put!” 

Mickey doesn’t want to show his gratitude, for this, for that, for any of it. His eyes flick over to Ian. Still talking to that guy, but glances up to find Mickey’s eyes on his. For a minute Ian’s smile and easy movements freeze and he starts to step away. Mickey waves him off. _Don’t worry, fuckhead. Not goin’ anywhere._ Ian smiles. 

Mickey lights the cigarette. Fuck, that’s good. He exhales from his nose. Ryan’s back, cigarette box in hand. Offers to take his coat for the billionth time. No. Thanks, or whatever, but No.

 

The view. Look at that view, Ian had said. So Mickey looks, again, after people slowly start leaving, a little at a time. Still too many fuckin people, but that Gideon guy is finally hitting on some other dude. Mickey breathes. He finds Ian in the window reflection, watches his back, a small circle of guys around him. He can see Ian’s hands moving, his head swinging back and forth to all the faces. Everyone keeps laughing. Ian lets a hand drop onto someone’s arm now and then. 

All Mickey can really see in that view are big fucking windows. He wonders how easy they could break. Wonder if one bullet could go through a whole panel, spider it into pieces. Big old windows are drafty. Looming over everything, impossible to escape. But brittle, really. Sharp when they bust. 

What kind of gun? Would it take more than that? Something heavier, loud, hitting over and over. He starts thinking about all the fucking guns he’s touched in his life. Thinks about the guns he has, his brothers, his uncles. His dad. This is the kind of shit he thinks about when he walks into a place like this. This is what he sees. How to grab and take and hurt and destroy, as fast and messy as possible. Break, break, break. 

All he sees are windows. Glass. Fragile. He doesn’t get why anyone with fucking money, up in the air like this, think they are a good idea. He keeps thinking about tempered glass. It’s probably tempered glass. People think that keeps them safe, but you can break it if you try. Might take the right tool, the right place, but hit it right, it busts open without a fight. Sometimes not even a sound, sometimes it does most of the work itself, without meaning to.  
Then what? Then the window’s open, and the frame is weak, and then you can just go down the line. Boom. Boom. Boom. Everything gives, one part at a time. Then what? Birds in the house? Wind coming in? Nothing could cover that shit. No cardboard big enough. Couldn’t get close enough without falling out, thinking of jumping. No walls, not safe anymore, just glass and metal everywhere, some sort of gun on the ground.

More than anything, Mickey wonders if someone could see him, see him all lit up, staring out. Someone in the dark, someone in the dark room of a building he can’t see into. Just out there, staring in and seeing all these fags and then seeing him, too. Seeing him in this guy’s living room, looking out, searching.

Mickey wonders if someone in those buildings can see him. See him setting his bottle down on the table, walking slowly toward Ian. See him sigh at Ian’s voice, telling jokes, leaning in, interested, then interrupting, hands waving all over the place. He wonders if anyone can see him, reaching for Ian’s elbow like Ian reached for his, but lighter, just a nudge. He wonders if the people out there see Ian’s face brighten as he says, “Hey! Hey guys, you all met Mickey, right? This is Mickey, he’s my…” But he drops it, pulls Mickey toward him again, squeezes. “Erggg! This is just awesome! So glad you get to meet this guy!” His hand sweeping up to Mickey’s neck to lightly squeeze it.

God, Mickey’s so tired. Eyes on the ground, embarrassed as fuck. “Okay,” Mickey says. “Yeah, okay.” Mickey’s head is nudging away, over his shoulder. Ian’s hand squeezes his neck again, then drops. 

“I’ll see ya,” Ian says. “Charlie, I haven’t forgotten your promise!” All the guys laugh. Mickey doesn’t. Ian puts a hand on his back. 

Mickey doesn’t know where he’s going. _Just get him to a corner, just somewhere they can talk for a fuckin minute without all these people around. Ask him when the fuck they’re gonna leave, be alone._ But there’s nowhere to go in this room. Just the giant room with people in every corner. 

Mickey looks over his shoulder to see if anyone’s watching, if Ian’s still there. They aren’t. He is, eyebrow cocked. Mickey leads them down a short hallway, who knows where. Head poking into rooms. The fancy bathroom at the front, where he’s been already. There’s an office with some giant couch in it. Another bedroom with a bunch of fuckin bookshelves. Then the biggest bedroom, all the way at the end. More fag photos on the wall. Another giant fuckin window, but it’s quiet. Thank God. Finally, quiet. 

Mickey just breathes. 

Ian starts to talk, but Mickey just says, “Don’t.”  
Ian starts to talk, but Mickey says, “Just-- a regular what.”  
Ian starts to talk, but Mickey says, “He’s one of your regular fuckin what.”  
He’s said it all to the window, that judgemental piece of shit. His fist clenches. Could punch through that fucking window. He’s so tired, but he could do it. Never too tired for that shit, running, punching, running.

He doesn’t know he’s breathing funny until Ian’s hands find his. He closes his eyes. Goddammit Gallagher, not going to be some crying fag for this bullshit. But he’s so tired. His eyes are so tired. He can’t really hold it back. He’s gonna, though. Gotta. His jaw moving, trying to say it.  
“Just--” Mickey says. “I just gotta know what--”

Ian puts his hands on Mickey’s shoulders, and Mickey lets a breath out he didn’t know he had in him. His shoulders drop. Ian’s hands slide slowly down his arms, clenching softly over his muscles. Ian’s hands, _those hands, my god_ sliding onto his wrists, Ian’s hands smoothing the back of his hands, fingers reaching for his. 

Mickey drops the coats, just lets them drop. His arm, his hand feel damp and ache from holding them. He starts to raise his hand to hold Ian, but Ian’s grip tightens. Not too hard, just enough to make a point. Say _Wait._ Say _Soon._ Mickey closes his eyes, slowly, as Ian’s head dips. He opens his mouth, slightly. Shaking. So hungry. But Ian’s mouth passes his, and Mickey whimpers. Ian’s cheek sliding against his, nose nuzzling against his ear, his cheekbone, his jawbone, dragging down along his neck. Ian’s breath is hot on him. So hot on his neck. Mickey tries to urge him closer but Ian’s body bends away. A choked sound comes up from Mickey’s throat. He’s trembling. Hard. Ian backs up, abruptly. 

“That’s it,” Ian says, quietly.  
Mickey swallows, opens his eyes. “That’s it what.” Every Ts snaps shut hard. _Go away. Go away._ It doesn’t work. 

“That’s the regular what. Just that. Sometimes just bringing drinks around, open bottles, hang out. Listen to what guys say. Bring more drinks around.” 

Mickey backs away, just a little. Ian moves forward, just a little. Mickey’s eyes flick over to the window. “You fuckin sure about that? That’s all it is.” He says it to the window. He says it as hard and steady as he can. 

“I’m sure,” Ian says. He does not hesitate. His voice is steady. “I’m absolutely fucking sure.” 

Mickey’s eyes rock back to Ian’s. Fuck this burny-eyed bullshit. It’s been such a long fuckin night. He’s just tired, that’s all. That’s all. He steps forward, slowly. He looks in Ian’s eyes. It’s still dark in here, but there’s a light in the corner and Ian’s eyes are still. Ian is still, quiet. 

Mickey watches his hands slide up Ian’s chest, slowly. Mickey watches his hands unzip Ian’s jacket, slip it slowly over his strong shoulders. Watches Ian’s eyes close. Watches Ian’s chest start to heave as Mickey’s hands slide against his grey-blue shirt, circling his sensitive nipples, hand sliding up his neck, the other circling his waist and pulling back again. Ian’s breathing so hard. Mickey’s fingers fall soft, swirling everywhere, feeling him. Taking his time. 

This is the Ian he knows. The Ian underneath that jacket. The Ian in the soft t-shirt, trying to stay still, so shaky when Mickey touches him first, when he didn’t expect it, when he wasn’t the one to begin. 

“You’re sure,” Mickey whispers. Part of him knows he shouldn't say, “You’re sure you haven’t ever,” because who knows what happened before, at that place Mickey first found him. He shakes the thought away. Won’t think about that place, won’t think about where Ian went before, either. 

He wants to know now. Wants to know now, if he’s sure. “You sure this is it now?” Mickey watches his hands trace against Ian’s chest, his shoulders, watches his thumbs slide against the underside of Ian’s jaw as Ian’s head tips back to gasp. 

“I’m sure,” he breathes. “God, Mick, I’m so sure.” 

Mickey lets his hands drop to his hips. Ian makes a tiny noise. Mickey walks him backward, guiding him by the hips, toward the wall. Ian’s eyes on his, his soft, curved lips parting, his tongue sliding out to touch his lip, quickly. Mickey’s thumbs pressing, dipping down just below his hips, dragging down and up. Ian’s breath comes harder. “Mick,” he says. “Mick, please.” 

There he is, again, blue t-shirt, worried he’ll stop. Ian saying “Please.” There Ian is. The real one, not this loft party bullshit. 

But he’s going to be different, this time. Mickey is. He’s going to reach his fingers down, slowly. He’s going to brush them against the outline of Ian’s cock, long and thick and hard in his jeans. For him. Just him. Just here. He’s going to be different, this time. Not running, not grabbing. Just steady. Sure. Deep. Just how Ian likes it. 

Ian’s breath shakes hard as Mickey’s hand finally falls on him, pressing against him. Mickey’s other hand sliding up Ian’s body again, tracing his jaw, sliding up his face. Ian’s so quiet, just breathing, just whispering Mickey’s name over and over. Mickey sighs, so shaky, dragging his lips against Ian’s without landing. A deep, wet hum. _Beautiful._ The word flies fast toward him and bounces off, a tiny bird against a window. 

Mickey’s leg between Ian’s, pressing up. Ian’s head tipped back against the wall. Mickey’s eyes on his neck. He stares. He waits. Ian’s head falls, his body drooping, letting Mickey hold him. His eyes are lidded and soft. Mickey moves forward in tiny increments, feeling Ian’s breath on his face. He presses his leg against Ian’s cock harder. Ian lets out a loud gasp, followed by a groan as Mickey’s cheek brushes his, mouth pressing just below his ear. “Let’s go, then.” 

Ian breathes out a surprised smile. “Can’t, can’t go out there like this, Mick.” 

Mickey pulls his head back. He looks deep into Ian’s eyes, waits until he sees Ian, there, in the green. His arm slides up, _this shirt so soft, Jesus Christ_ behind Ian, knuckles almost scraping the brick wall. He holds him softly at the neck. He pulls him slowly to his lips. God, it’s soft. They both groan. Hard. Mickey’s lips pulling back as Ian chases his. Breath damp. Teasing. 

“We’re not going out there,” Mickey says, one kiss to Ian’s lips. “C’mon.” 

 

The bathroom has nice tile and all that shit, but the door is the same as any other door. There’s a candle burning in there, smelling like church and cookies at the same time. Ian’s arms are pinned above his head, held by one of Mickey’s strong hands. _Fuck. Fuck. Good. So good._ Mickey working his neck, just shy of marking him. _Yeah, he knows, he knows he can’t, but he’s going to get as close as he fuckin can, got a problem?_ Ian’s legs keep buckling, his mouth saying words. Mickey whispering _Shhhh, shhhh_ because Ian keeps almost keeps saying words that will make him wanna run. 

Mickey shuts him up by kissing him, over and over, deeper, deeper, harder and harder, and Ian’s arms twitch and twist against his grip. They break apart to breathe. “Let go, please, please. I--” 

Harder, harder, searching Ian’s mouth. Looking for a clue, for proof, for some kind of agreement, pact, promise or some sort of bullshit. Ian pulls back, “Please, Mick. Need to feel you.” Kissed again, tongue flicking his lip. “God, need your dick in my mouth.” 

Well, that’s new. Mickey can’t help but chuckle. “Thought this was gonna be a handjob situation. Sure we got time for that?” 

Ian squirms, pushes his pelvis hard against Mickey’s. _Hard. Both so hard._ Fuckin smirk. “Let me go and we’ll see.” 

 

The tub has a nice, wide thing all around it. An edge like a coffee table around it. It’s probably where this guy sets a goblet of his fuckin Chardonnay when he’s taking a bubble bath with his boyfriend. But right now, right fuckin now, Mickey’s getting blown on it. Pants are around his ankles, thighs wide, Ian between them, sliding up and down on his dick, twisting his head around around the tip, fist pumping slowly. Mickey’s hands on his head, curling in his hair. 

Ian’s hand dropping, mouth pulling him down, tongue easing him back and back and back. MIckey’s head keeps falling back. He keeps whining and breathing so goddamn hard he thinks his chest will break. Down and down and down. He’s trying so hard to listen to the grip of Ian’s fingers, gripping his hips. _Steady. Steady._ He’s trying, but god he wants to move. He never wants to come, just wants Ian’s mouth like this, forever and ever. His eyes, Jesus Christ. 

Ian’s lips slide up again. He breaks off, breathing hard. “Mick, you ok?” 

Mickey can’t say it fast enough. “Course I’m ok. The fuck would--” 

“Just wanted to make sure,” Ian kisses his thigh, his other thigh, noses at his balls, licks a line back up. He circles him, takes him back down, his fingers pressing against him again. 

Mickey doesn’t realize he’s leaning back a little until Ian’s holding his back with one hand, sliding his own body closer. _He’s taking him even deeper. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Fuck. Fuck. Never been this good. Never._ Mickey lets his lip go from his teeth. He can’t help it. “Fucking good. So good at sucking my dick, Ian. Fuck.” It makes Ian’s mouth slow, bob back up. He’s gonna make Mickey wait. Fucker. A whine. Eyes shut, don’t look at him. Don’t blow. Quiet down. His breath stutters. Ian’s mouth sucks at the tip, then stills. 

“Fuckfuckfuck,” Mickey starts to slip through space, the need for Ian’s mouth to move overwhelming. “Ian, Ian, I--” _God, he’s about to fucking beg for this. He wants to beg for this._ “I--” 

Mickey’s eyes drop, find Ian’s eyes on his. The shining head of Mickey’s dick resting on his tongue, lips parted, slowly backing up to flick the slit once, twice. Mickey tells himself to keep his eyes open, hold fast. His legs shake. Without warning, Ian’s eyes drop, and he slides back down.

Mickey’s head is so far back he feels unsteady. He opens his eyes with a start to get his bearings. God, there’s a fucking mirror. There’s a huge-ass mirror where Mickey can see himself breathing so hard, whining, eyes hooded. See himself being blown by a dude. A gay dude. Because he’s a gay dude that likes to be fucked by other gay dudes. Likes to be fucked by Ian. Just Ian. He looks at the back of Ian’s head in the mirror, bending. Sees his own legs trying to climb onto Ian’s back as Ian swallows against him. _Beautiful._ Another thump against the brain, against the window. 

Mickey gasps. Gasps again. “Oh fuck. Fuck.” Ian’s so good. This is so fucking good. His dick is so far back in his tight throat, Jesus Christ. He wants to come, he really does. So much. “Ian, I gotta--” 

Ian groans, nuzzles his head harder into Mickey’s hand. Mickey shakes hard, voice sliding up, a moan falling over Ian as Mickey lets go, hot and fast into Ian’s mouth

Mickey’s eyes tilt up to the mirror. His eyes. Jesus. There it is again, almost. So close his nose begins to buzz, chin wobble. He snorts hard, knocks Ian on the shoulder playfully as his breath slows down. “Get up, man. Your turn.” 

Ian combs at his mouth, smiles as they stand, clears his throat. “Almost blew in my pants, man. Wouldn’t even last, but--” 

The words are hardly out of his mouth before Mickey pushes him back to the door, hungrily swiping into his mouth, tasting himself, tasting Ian. Ian’s hands holding him close and closer. Breaking apart only for Mickey to get a pumps-worth of the fancy lotion on the counter in his hand. Ian smiles through his sigh, hand cupping Mickey’s face as he’s unzipped. “Mickey, I--” 

“Shhh,” Mickey says, kissing the words from his mouth. “Shhh,” he says, Ian’s lips meeting his, Mickey’s hand slowly beginning to pull. 

 

Surprisingly, no one seemed to know they were gone. Mickey still had the coats, Ian’s jacket zipped up again. Mickey lit a smoke so he wouldn’t smile. “I’m gonna get us some water,” Ian said, hand nudging Mickey’s.

People were saying goodbyes. Gideon and some other dude were already making plans to stay over. “It’s great, even the couch in the study opens up!” Ryan said. “Lots of room in the inn.” _Did he just wink? What the fuck? What the fuck did that mean?_ Mickey sits on the couch, coats bunched behind him. He watches Ian move around the people, helping someone pick up empty glasses and shit. He finds a bottle of water and goes, “Mickey! Think fast!” and Mickey’s hand shoots up to catch it before he knows what’s happening. 

The water is clean and cool in his throat. His eyes droop. He hears Ian talk about working at the Kash and Grab, of all things. God, he’s so tired. He watches Ian carry an armful of alcohol into the kitchen. Hears him laugh. _Beautiful._ Mickey’s head falls back. He can see the lights from the buildings. No one can see him. He’s sure. 

 

He doesn’t remember anything. There’s just a space of nothing, then a hand tapping hard on his arm before his body flies up. Fast. Hard. A window breaking open with a smash of the fist. Toward Mickey, not away. He flinches. Ready.

“Woah, woah, easy killer.”  
The party. The party.  
“I’m taking breakfast orders. Scrambled eggs, waffles or french toast.”  
His heart so fast. God, what the fuck. He can hardly breathe. He can feel his whole body about to fly out the window. His hand finds his eyes. “Eggs.”  
Ryan. That’s this guy’s name. He remembers. “And what do you think he’ll want.”  
Ian. Ian spread out next to him. “What the fuck should I know, man. I’m not his keeper.”  
This party? Guess they slept here? He notices his shoes are off. Who fuckin took his shoes off?  
“Right,” this guy says as Mickey sits up. “Didn’t mean to assume.”  
There’s all this rich people music, a few guys around. It’s bright in here, Jesus Christ.  
“So did you guys meet last night? Or are you together?” 

The light from the huge wall of fucking windows has washed everything clean. Never mind all the ashtrays and pipes and crap. Everything is pale and clear and open. He can get why people would want to live in a huge fuckin drafty place like this. Like this, it’s so light, everywhere. But it doesn’t hurt. It feels open. Light. Free. That’s what it feels like, here.

Even this guy’s face. Just staring at him, waiting for an answer. It shouldn’t be a big deal, right? Part of him wants to be like, “He blew me in your fuckin bathroom, asshole, whaddayou think?” It’s the truth, of course, but to say it that way brings that weight back, brings that gun, fist, hammer, tire iron back into his hand. A tight, sweaty, angry grip. Ready to smash a window. Smash his way out. Smash his way in. 

To say it that way doesn’t show the weight of Ian over his shoulder as he pulled him out of the snow. To say it that way doesn’t show the weight of Ian’s eyes on his bloody face, that awful day. It erases the word beautiful, the word safe, unbidden in his mind. That stupid bird, stunned, falling. Not always dead. Not always. Sometimes stunned. Sometimes pushing back into the air, eventually. 

It’s really this. It’s over and over, _I’m sure. I’m sure._ Some sort of fucked up prayer that he can’t stop saying to himself. He’s so tired. So fuckin tired. 

“Together.” 

Ryan’s ready to make eggs. He doesn’t fucking know about this shit, up in a glass and brick box in the air, away from all the garbage and peeling paint and guns. “Cool! You’re a lucky dude.” 

His eyes on Ian, watching him breathe, that blue shirt. God. He wants to lie down, smell him, have him hold him in his stupid long arms, in this clear winter light. 

He wants him to know what he just said. He can imagine his eyes lighting up. He can imagine it erasing all the stupid fucking shit he ever said, smoothing one long swipe on a dirty window, cleaning all the mud and dirt away. Clean and clear and open. He feels like he’s gonna fuckin cry. Fine. He’ll just admit it. He’s been trying not to fuckin cry for so long. Cry like some girl over all this bullshit. Every part of it. Every part of it that isn’t Ian saying _I’m sure._

He can’t even think about it. He looks out the window until Ryan comes back with a cup of coffee. It’s warm is his hands. “Thanks,” Mickey grunts. “This ‘sgood.”  
Ian’s eyes flutter open. He turns his head. A slow smile when he sees Mickey sitting there, coffee in hand. God he fuckin looks like he looked back then, when they took turns running from each other. _Tell fuckhead this is not over._

“Mornin’”  
“Say that like you’ve slept more than 20 fuckin minutes,” Mickey says as Ian stretches, yawns. “What happened? I musta passed out.”  
Ian leans over, still smiling, hand reaching for Mickey’s leg, “Wellllll, first we did it in Ryan’s bathroom.” 

Mickey’s eyes jerk to Ryan at the stove, making all his brunch shit. “Yeah, yeah, got that part.” 

Ian laughs as he sits up. Mickey hands him the coffee. “You fell asleep while I was cleaning up. We woke you up to take the bed out of the couch. You don’t remember that?” 

Mickey shakes his head. Ryan comes over with the plate of eggs. “And a good morning to you, sir. Pancakes? Eggs? French toast?”

Ian shakes it off with a little laugh. “I’m good here. Thanks, though.” 

Mickey waits for Ryan to walk away. “I don’t remember. Whadd I do? Whadd I say?” 

Ian passes the cup back, plucks some eggs off Mickey’s plate with his fingers. “Nothing. Just kind of slumped against me while Gideon and Ryan opened the couch up.” Ian smiles at the plate. “Was nice.” Looks back up, squints. When’ja get so heavy? Ya don’t feel that heavy when we're--” 

“Got it, got it. Thank you very much,” Mickey says as they both laugh, voices scratchy. Mickey twists the plate away as Ian reaches for more eggs. He passes the coffee back instead. “What we doin’ now.” 

Ian shrugs. “Home I guess. You comin’?”  
Mickey shrugs too. “Sure, man. I guess.” 

Ian drinks, looks out the window. Mickey watches him. There’s that word again, and that one, and that one, and all of them, rising into the air. The dark fading away, bit by bit. The light coming, slow and grey, then blue, then pink, then orange, then too bright to see. 

“Seriously, look at that view, Mickey. Amazing, isn’t it?” 

Ian’s shirt is so soft, his lips so pink, his hair burns into Mickey the way it always has. The sound of his voice busy and bright, rising and rising, covering everything.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, taking the cup back, passing the plate of eggs back. “Yeah, it guess it really fuckin is.”


End file.
